Without more words, he turned to the staircase and began the ascent, and after one glance at her uncle to ascertain his wishes, Betty followed with a heavy heart. She was not without a little thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing this unhappy queen, and there was, too, all a young girl’s curiosity and eagerness for adventure, but she dreaded a cold reception, knowing so well how unwelcome she was likely to be, sent, as she was, by one whom the poor woman must regard as her greatest enemy. So in a tumult of contrary emotions Mistress Betty walked down the gloomy, ill-lighted corridor, behind the castellan, mentally contrasting this dull place with Mohun’s Ottery. They were not to gain admittance without some parley; the queen allowed no intercourse with the royal officers stationed about her by the king. She lived among her own people, and Bedingfield had to crave permission to speak with her. Finally, a page admitted them into a small anteroom, where Betty was told to wait and lay aside her mantle. There was a closed door opposite to the one at which they had entered, and from behind it came the sound of voices engaged in conversation, which was hushed as Bedingfield opened the door and passed through. Betty knew that he was going into the presence of the queen, and she stood listening with anxiety. She heard a woman’s voice address him at once; the cold dignity of the tone and the slightly foreign accent made her sure of the identity of the speaker. “What tidings, Sir Edmund?” she asked; “my maids tell me there is a stir below, and truly we long for any change; ay, almost welcome evil rather than the dull monotony of suspense.” “No news, madam,” replied Bedingfield; “only a messenger from my lord privy seal and--” “Alack, alack!” cried Catherine, hastily, “I did not speak sooth; news from that quarter is ill news indeed. If it had been from the king’s highness--but that comes no more to me.” “In a way it is, madam,” Sir Edmund answered; “the king’s grace hath sent another maid to attend upon your highness.” “Another maid!” the queen exclaimed, in a tone of irony; “you mock me, sir; ’tis not possible that so great state is allowed the Queen of England? Four maids! Such a train will be a grievous charge upon you.” “Nay, madam, I do beseech you, lay not the blame of your poor attendance upon me,” Bedingfield said, with some feeling; “I may not exceed my orders.” “Your orders,” said the queen, bitterly; “who gave them to you, man, but that tailor’s son, mine enemy?” “Nay, madam; you do wrong my lord privy seal,” Bedingfield returned; “he is but the mouthpiece of the king’s grace.” “It may be, and it should not be,” Catherine said sadly; “yet the time may come when even Cromwell will regret it. I do remember that my lord cardinal wrought against me to his own downfall, and died loving me, as I believe, better than his creature, who still wears a paper crown.” There was a moment’s pause, and then Bedingfield spoke abruptly.